


Blossoms of Melancholy

by boobeika



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Death, Flowers, One Shot, Terminal Illnesses, hanahaki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 13:55:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16347989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boobeika/pseuds/boobeika
Summary: Kyungsoo coughs up poppies, the mark of Hanahaki disease. As death knocks on his door and life slips through his fingers, he finds something beautiful in the tragedy.





	Blossoms of Melancholy

**Author's Note:**

> this is my new hanahaki fic, inspired by a masterpiece which caught my eye. heads up, major major major (cannot stress this enough) character death. hope you enjoy, let me know what you think :)

The gentle rays of sun softly filter through the half open blinds, shimmering lightly in the cool morning's air and gathering in front of his closed eyes. Mere seconds elapse before he drags his eyes open, squinting slightly as he gets used to the delicate light. A yawn elicits from between his heart-shaped lips. It's mellow, with a faintness which renders it inaudible to all who do not care for listen to it. His hand clumsily feels around the nightstand, reaching for the remote which controls his newly acquired remote-controlled blinds. After a few aimless smacks, his hand locates the remote and the blinds smoothly slide up until the sun shines through uninhibited. It catches his skin perfectly; golden rays dancing across his honeyed skin like joyous fairies, leaving a golden glow in their wake. His plush lips form a tired pout as his black hair falls gently in front of his soft brown eyes.

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. In his case, they are the windows to everything. His life, his every moment, every untold tale, laid out in those big brown eyes, which wordlessly speak of more than he could ever express in words. Those brown eyes, which silently speak of everything that is, everything that once was. They speak of hopeless infatuation, of ambition and a profound hunger for everything he could possibly squeeze out of life. But, with a most transcendent power to overwhelm every moment of his life, every second of every minute of his existence of hopefullness and hopelessness, they speak of his ineluctable propensity for infatuation, a burning desire in his love-struck heart for too large a number of people.

A soft groan escapes him as a small smile approaches his pouting lips. The now glaring alarm dominates his room, searing bleeps ringing throughout the small space and invading his tired conscience. His trembling hands find the object closest to him and, with all the strength his veiny arms can muster, fling it in the general direction of the alarm. It does nothing, and so, burdened by fatigue and a growing headache, he painfully sits himself up, preparing to make the treacherous journey across his room to the alarm. 

It is at this moment, as the metronome of the alarm pounds inside his mind, that the world seems to cease to exist. The fresh morning hymns of the birds comes to a sudden close, the band across the road which seems in a state of constant practise goes completely and utterly silent. Even the alarm wears itself out, coming to a close in inanimate mourning. A soft gasp escapes his throat, ladened with horror and melancholy, before the gentle sounds melts into the still air like the foregoing.

For, as Do Kyungsoo gingerly sat up, into his lap fell a single red petal.

He knows what this means. Though his mind, rapidly clouding with fear and heartache, attempts to deny it, giving feeble alternatives to the harsh reality of the fretful plight which his usual mind of rationality would laugh off, the inevitable reality, imposed upon him before his mind even wakes, is exactly as the petal suggests.

Hanahaki. The disease of the enchanted, of the hopeless romantics whose lives lay much emphasis on the hopelessness. Wretched souls, suffering the bitter effects of the plague of the love-struck. One sided love.

.

The harsh breeze wafting through the summer's air creates a strange contrast to light blue sky. Kyungsoo was startled by the wind when he stepped out his apartment, woollen scarf wrapped snugly around his nose and mouth in an attempt to catch the petals that should inevitably fall from his ladened lungs.

The scarf, knitten by his grandmother on a cold winter's night as his childhood self sat half-asleep at her feet, is red. Red, like the petals that sealed his fate. Red, like the blood which runs through his veins, bringing his pitiful infatuation to every inch of his sickened frame. Red, the last thing he will cast his gaze upon before he draws his final breath.

Red, like the chair in which he is awkwardly perched.

The cafe in which he sits, his mind ablaze with thoughts and raw emotion, has a certain aura to it which, despite the bright colours and happy music quietly filtering through the speakers, brings a gloom to his mind. His hands wrap around his hot chocolate, clutching it as though it's his everything, his only life source. It has a soothing warmth to it in which he finds a strange sense of comfort. It is not an overwhelming sense of bliss, in fact, it would be a troubling deception for him to label it bliss in the first place, but it is not nothing. There's something soothing in the panicked hustle of the busy establishment, the steady hum of the coffee machines barely heard over the shouted orders and busy conversations of its patrons. Snippets of their mysterious lives reach his ears; fragments of stories he will never be told, tiny elements of conversations he will never know. He silently absorbs it. Every word, every thought, every emotion. In complete and utter silence.

.

"Mr. Do, I won't lie to you. I have never seen Hanahaki quite like this."

The doctor is old, with a kind smile that reaches his eyes and wrinkles decorating his face. Small glasses fall down to the bridge of his nose as he speaks, no matter how many times he pushes them back up. His name badge identifies him as Yang Ilbyung. 

Dr. Yang talks quietly, voice raspy from what Kyungsoo presumes to be a former smoking habit, and with a tone of practised pity. Kyungsoo knows from his tone alone that Dr. Yang has deemed him a lost cause. His voice tells him that; the tone of poorly repressed melancholy swallowing the humid office whole, its mourning aura casting a gray upon Kyungsoo's fading palette of hope.

"The red petals?" Kyungsoo asks.

Dr. Yang gives a sad smile. "Yes, Mr. Do. The red petals. I believe they come from poppies. In all my career, I have never seen a patient produce red poppies, though I have read about a case or two. You are incredibly rare, almost mythological, as it were."

"Is that good or bad?" Kyungsoo wonders, though the answer has already been silently spoken.

"It's not good, Mr. Do," the doctor says with a sad sigh. "Those who threw up red poppies died after mere weeks."

Kyungsoo nods, a sad grimace shaking his shivering frame. From the moment the petal fell into his lap, delicate, with an air of morbid grace, he felt his fate sealed. He would live a short life, and then, the wind would carry his last breath into the Heavens alongside himself. He will die. Tomorrow or next year, he does not know. But the mark of the poppy is the mark of death. "I know I'll die, Doc," he says, matter-of-fact tone threatened by a wobbling voice on the verge of poorly restrained tears.

"You may die, but there's no guarantee," Dr. Yang begins. "Your case is so rare, there is no definitive statistic regarding survival rates. We could always try the surgery."

The surgery. He's heard of it before, whispered in hushed tones by those too fearful, too rife with disgust, to do anything but. He's dimly aware of the consequences of such a surgery; a life without love, without a burning heart, alive with the fire of adoration, a life without the simple pleasures even those plagued with misfortune take for granted. 

A memory echoes in his haunted mind. A man, of great prowess, perfect poise and of a sweet disposition which earned him respect and admiration worldwide. A man one bitter morning, awoke to purple tulips spilling out of his burning throat. He chose life over love, and so forced himself under the knife in a painful attempt at survival. Weeks after he first tasted the effect of a loveless life, he was found on his bedroom floor, with a fading pulse too far gone to revive and a hollow look in his once vibrant brown eyes. A careless man, now a man of the past.

The doctor clears his throat, the scratchy sound lingering in the cool air before fading into the sound of Kyungsoo's voice. "No, no, I don't want that. I won't do that," he decides.

The doctor grimaced with unsurprised disappointment. "Of course a man like you should choose to risk Hanahaki. But I don't believe you are aware of its wrath."

"Perhaps I'm not," Kyungsoo concedes, "But are you aware of the man who had the surgery?"

"There are many such men, but I presume you mean Wu Yifan." At Kyungsoo's mournful nod, he continues. "A fine man indeed. My mother knew him in earlier years. But, Kyungsoo, I want you to know that his case is extremely rare, and shouldn't deter you from the surgery."

"I want to feel love," Kyungsoo whispers. His voice, normally deep and silky, is laced with a suppressed vulnerability, a touch of softness seeping through that gaps of his steadily crumbling composure.

The doctor nods, slight gesture the only indication of his awareness of Kyungsoo's sombre admission. His eyes run over a file laying loose on the desk, though they both know it is neither relevant nor interesting, and the man is merely trying to cleanse the air of the gloomy atmosphere. "I strongly suggest you undergo the surgery. Even if love is of the utmost importance to you, a desire to love in your situation must be matched by a desire to die. If you have surgery, you can change. Rebuild your life around new principles, new morality. This would change your life, Kyungsoo."

"No," Kyungsoo responds, "I won't. It won't. I want to love."

"Very well," the doctor concedes, "you will love. You are a grown man, so this is your decision. I cannot force you to undergo surgery, but please know that the threats of Hanahaki are not empty. This is a fatal disease and without the surgery you will die."

"I know, I know."

The doctor smiles with faux warmth. "We can put you on medication, of course, but it is merely painkillers, not even specific to Hanahaki. If you want, of of course."

Kyungsoo merely nods in response. The doctor smiles again, rife with bittersweet admiration for the man in front of him. It is half heartedly returned, yet the world of Kyungsoo's mind lies far from the stuffy doctor's office.

.

The next morning, as the sun streams through the open window, Kyungsoo awakes to two poppies falling into his lap. 

They shine with colour and vibrance, a stark contrast to his dull surroundings, yet they cast a grey over his temporary existence. Before his mind regusters his fear, melancholic rage for the foregling sufferings of Do Kyungsoo, his shaking hand grasps them, squeezing the flowers until no life remains in the deadly florals. They soon find themselves chucked onto the floor, a bitter scream ripped from Kyungsoo's scratchy throat as he fruitlessly discards his killers. 

To the inattentive ear, the scream is aggressive, rife with anger and antagonism. Yet it did not come from a place of rage. It came from his secluded melancholy, spoke of his pent up sorrow, the terror of his knowledge that the deceased poppies, the floral transcriptions of Earth's beauty, running rife with vibrancy and blissful sunshine, mark his doom. That one day, perhaps a fine summer's morning, as he lays at peace in a place of tragic bliss, the poppies will breathe his last breath, carrying it away with the gentle breeze wafting through the air of his world of former glory.

As he ponders his impending doom, the happy chirps of the birds reach his ears. They sing songs of praise, of happiness and carelessness in a world so bleak, their voices blend easily with their companions, creating a perfect harmony of nature, blissfully ignorant to the gloomy boy just metres away from their carefree lives.

The melodies, sweet cries of joy and adoration, fill his room, the mellifluous voices hounding every inch of Kyungsoo's bare dwelling. He allows his eyes to close, mind taking in the sounds and allowing them to drown out the silent cries reslentlessly pounding at his skull. He can't pretend they bring him happiness, but they do provide a airy sense of comfort. 

The soft ring of his phone in the next room harshly clashes with the sweet sounds, shrill shrieks disparate to the heavenly calls of the birds. Kyungsoo lingers momentarily in the bed, body and mind not quite in sync as he struggles to convince himself to get up. Seconds later, he finds himself heading towards the phone in sleepy shuffles, small yawns escaping him with each movement.

He picks up the phone, his grasp quivering in time to the shivers of the rest of his body. A soft "hello?" is uttered, voice raspy to match his dry, scratching throat.

"Do Kyungsoo?" A voice of aching familiarity questions.

"That's me."

"Mr. Do, this is Dr. Yang. Your latest tests are back and we require your presence at the hospital. Would you be alright to come in?"

Kyungsoo nods, the lingering silence which follows prompting his mind to come to the realisation that Dr. Yang cannot hear him. "Yeah, ok, when do you want me?"

"Normally this is my day off, but this is really quite urgent, so I'm only here for you. I'd advise you to come in immediately."

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Kyungsoo nods, informing the doctor of his intention to come in as soon as possible before hanging up, mind ablur with the wretched doom which surely awaits him. Is today the day? Will the flowers take his last stolen breath, carrying it into the night as his eyes close for the last time? Perhaps he will finally eye the face of the deity which turned so cruel a fate towards him, the divinity to which he owes his sorrowful life. 

He runs a shaking hand through his charcoal hair, eyes closed as he tries to steady his fragile mind. As his breathing evens out, melancholic whispers of the mind fading into grey as his harsh reality comes back to him, the origin of such thoughts return, as too does his forgotten duty. He mentally kicks himself for allowing such an important task to slip his mind before hastily grabbing his things and, not without double, triple checking that the door is locked, makes his way towards the hospital.

.

Walking though the sliding grass doors, a nervous tune bouncing through his head to match the beat of each brisk step, Kyungsoo finds himself almost immediately invaded by the repulsively hygienic smell of antiseptic. No matter where is aching feet take him, the smell always follows, like a bouncing puppy determined to keep all eyes on its master. After such long days spent within its kingdom, he supposes he should have grown accustomed to it, yet it continues to assault his senses with each step towards its wrath.

Standing in the elevator, eyes rife with a raw determination not to make contact with the woman next to him, Kyungsoo can't help but ponder the inevitable. A legion of worn out questions arise yet again. The recurring themes, of death and despair; of suffering and of the unknown, are ever-present among his wretched ponderings.

The soft ring of the elevator signal his arrival, as do the opening of its metal doors. He offers the woman an awkward nod before stepping out, trembling hands brushing imaginary dust off his pinks sweater as he takes shuffling steps towards the office of Dr. Yang.

His hand, slender fingers of honey and sunlight, wrap around the brass doorknob of the office. Distant calls barely reach his ears in the overtaking silence as he pauses, but a second of silent contemplation, before turning the handle and walking in.

The doctor sits in his office chair, vigorously maintained posture evident in his every movement. Small brown eyes follow Kyungsoo's every move, lips pursed in silent judgement. A wrinkled hand waves in the general direction of the opposite seat. Taking it as an invitation to sit, Kyungsoo does so, tense posture evident in contrast to the straight, rigid composure of the doctor.

"Good morning, Mr. Do," Dr. Yang says. Kyungsoo hears the sorrow in his voice, almost reminds him that he's not quite dead yet, but elects to remain silent. 

"We have received results of your latest scans, and I'm afraid it's not good news," he continues.

Kyungsoo flinches, unsurprised yet oddly melancholic. "Hit me, Doc. I'm ready."

The doctor nods before relaying the news. " The scans we took have shown that there are now fully grown roots in your lungs. You have now reached the final stage of your life, Kyungsoo. I'm sorry."

For a moment, a singularity upon the realms of time, the world stops. The relentless ticking of the clock on the wall ceases, the distant sounds of the hospital seem of another world. The weight of the doctor's words hang in the air; an untouched horror seeped in the harsh reality of a cruel, cruel world. In the air they linger, seconds of the mind's silent wanderings, before words of grief slip from the confines of his scratching throat.

"When?" He asks softly, voice cracking with the single word.

The doctor pauses, words seemingly caught in his throat. Kyungsoo watching as his brown eyes dart around the room, fixing their gaze on anywhere but him, before he finally speaks. "We can't say for sure, but it won't be sudden. You shall know when your death impends," he pauses, as if in an internal debate on whether to reveal the nature of his death. "You will cough up a whole poppy, and eventually, the flowers and blood in your throat will choke you to death."

Kyungsoo nods. He couldn't say he didn't feel slight trepidation at the thought of choking to death, but he had never once assumed his death would be the beautifully tragic tale of the movies. Flowers are pretty, he supposes, but hanahaki is not. He will die the death of a common man. As he is.

"Well," he begins, "I suppose I should be going. I won't spend the rest of my life in a hospital."

Not waiting for the doctor's response, he stands from his chair and turns on his heel, bowing slightly as he bids him good day and walks from the office. As he walks out the hospital doors, breathing in the fresh air of nature's call, he can't help but wonder if he does so for the last time.

.

The final mark of a dead man's doom comes but a week later. He sits in a meadow, daisies scattered across his hair and a bunch of fresh tulips in his hands, when it happens. The world reeks with aching irony, he notes with a bitter chuckle as he examines the petals in his hands. They're large and blood red, soaked in the crimson substance which runs through is throbbing veins, forcibly prolonging his fading existence for as long as the poppies will let them. They lie scrunched within his shaking grasp, a morbid contrast to the bright, cheery colours of the meadow.

The meadow. A child's heaven, brimming with colour and joy, a house of eternal bliss. Exactly where his death was envisioned.

He feels his impending demise, senses its lingering presence in his every surrounding. The calls of the birds are much the same, yet they sing songs soaked in melancholy, soft hymns of suffering and doom. The colour of each blooming flower, rainbows of joy and beauty, seems entirely void in a world of such miserable darkness. He feels the familiar mark of the poppy in his throat, but its mark seems so much larger. A shaking hand rises to his neck, slender fingers wrapping around his caught throat as he feels his steady breaths melt away into short, desperate gasps for air. Some part of him knows. Knows that no mere petal lingers within him; rather, something far more sinister. Knows the flower he so despises may soon reveal itself in all its morbid glory.

He wonders what happened. In a day gone by, he was ready to embrace death, unafraid to meet his fate to save the one he so adores, yet today, amongst the happy surroundings of his death, he feels such melancholy. Perhaps his mind, which seems so detached from himself, finally senses the terrifying weight of death; perhaps it wishes it had forced surgery upon him. 

The thought goes quicker than it came. No mind could be too far gone to save its adoration for his love. For him. 

The first encounter with his love is an ever-lingering memory, clearly recalled amongst hazy memories which slipped away from him. Every detail, each intricate feature of his being, his soul of purity, stays with him. He remembers his kind eyes, a gentle brown, of a kindness to match his sweet souls. Remembers the way voice dropped as he told a secret, the honey-like smoothness as he spoke. Remembers the way his eyes lit up as he spoke of those he held dear, and how Kyungsoo longed to be spoken of in such a way. Remembers the way he wiped away Kyungsoo's tears as he ran, sobbing, to his warm embrace. 

As the calls of the birds cease, sunlight streaming though fluffy clouds, Kyungsoo closes his eyes, a peaceful smile on his face as the final poppy emerges from his lungs. His world falls silent as his last breath is carried away with the winds.

And so he sleeps, until the end of time. At peace.


End file.
